


When The Time Comes

by ladymac111



Category: Sherlock (TV), TiMER (2009)
Genre: F/M, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time John saw Sherlock's timer, he was far too concerned by the three (three!) nicotine patches on the same pale forearm to pay any attention to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Time Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Crossover with TiMER (available on Netflix instant, starring Emma Caulfield (Anya from Buffy)), in that it's set in the same universe, generally.
> 
> A technology exists -- a little strip embedded in the wrist -- which counts down until the day when you meet your soul mate, and then tells you when you first meet them. Most people get them when they turn 14, though in this universe, there are still quite a few adults who haven't gotten one (yet).
> 
> Just watch the movie, okay? It's cute and fun.

The first time John saw Sherlock's timer, he was far too concerned by the three (three!) nicotine patches on the same pale forearm to pay any attention to it.

The second time John saw Sherlock's timer, they were not in the middle of a case, and John indulged his curiosity about his new flatmate.

“So you've got one of those new timer things.”

Sherlock didn't look away from his newspaper. “Yes.”

“I didn't think you'd be into that sort of thing. Soul mates. Romance.”

“As I told you, I'm not.” Sherlock turned the page. “Mummy insisted. There wasn't much I could do.”

John shamelessly craned his neck to see the reading on it. “It's just got dashes. What does that mean?”

Sherlock sighed and finally lowered the paper, laying his left wrist on the table so John could see it easily. “It means my _soul mate_ doesn't have a timer. Or that I don't have a soul mate.”

“That's a pretty depressing interpretation.”

“Only if you think that sort of thing is important. It would probably just get in the way of the work.”

John chuckled. “And the work doesn't have wrists.”

“You don't have one,” Sherlock said. “Why not?”

“What, it isn't obvious? They're new and expensive.”

“They came onto the market while you were in the military.”

“Precisely. Yours was actually one of the first I'd seen, in real life. Though at the time I didn't look at the reading on it.”

“You're skeptical about them, too,” Sherlock said. “You don't think technology can really predict that sort of thing. Or, more accurately, you don't think it _should_ be able to.”

“Maybe I'm old-fashioned. I'd rather have relationships the traditional way.”

And that was the last time they talked about Sherlock's timer. John still glanced at it, from time to time, and it stayed blank.

Some of John's girlfriends had them. Most were blank, like Sherlock's. Some had large numbers on them. One of them only had 72 days left on hers; she and John were together until it had 68 days left. John knew that a lot of people with blank timers would date a lot of people, and if they liked them, would often take them to get a timer and be sure. John heard plenty of stories of this ending relationships very quickly. Fortunately (in his mind), none of his girlfriends asked him to get one. Though this was probably because none of them were around long enough.

 

* * *

 

John Hamish Watson was a survivor.

He told himself that, hundreds of times a day, in the weeks and months after Sherlock died. He had survived a childhood on the edge of poverty. He had survived medical school. He had survived Afghanistan. And he would survive this. If there was one thing he was good at, it was surviving.

It was hard to believe himself, though, when the horrible ache in his chest told him that part of himself had died with Sherlock. London, the heart that beat outside his body, was colourless and cold without Sherlock Holmes in it.

Time went on, and John survived. Eventually, the colour began to came back into his life, as the trees turned orange and red and dropped their leaves on the pavement and in the parks.

Somehow, John stayed in Baker Street. It had been nearly impossible at first, and he had actually spent some time with Harry. But Baker Street was his _home_ , and even though the pain was more when he was there (and Sherlock was not, which was the most wrong thing in the world), it was somehow also less. He and Mrs Hudson helped one another and together they moved forward with their lives.

It was a little more than a year _after_ that John met Mary. She had come to him through the blog, as clients still did, even though there was no longer a Sherlock Holmes to put his brilliant mind to their problems. John did his best, which was often good enough.

Mary's case was tricky. Too tricky for John, if he was being honest. He stopped himself from wishing that Sherlock was there to help.

But even though Mary's case went unsolved, they both got something out of it, in the form of one another, two lonely souls in the big world who felt a connection to one another.

Mary had a timer, but she didn't talk about it. John noticed, of course; it was blank. They became closer; within a few months, John spent as many nights at Mary's flat as he did at his own. (Mary never stayed at Baker Street, though – somehow, that was too much. Sherlock's spirit still lingered in the flat and it wouldn't be right to bring Mary into that in a way that whispered of permanence.)

It was bound to come up eventually, though, and when it did, John was both relieved and unsettled.

Mary's delicate fingers traced invisible shapes on John's torso in the darkness. Their breathing was slow and relaxed, and their sweat had cooled on one another.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes. Are you?”

She giggled, and John tightened his arm around her shoulders with a contented smile. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I was wondering,” she said slowly. “You don't have a timer. Why?”

 _And there it is_. “Just never got around to it, I guess. They came out when I was in the Army, and for a long time I couldn't afford one. And I suppose I just got used to not having one.”

“Mine is blank.”

“I know.”

She didn't answer, so John took a breath and spoke with as much calmness as he could gather on short notice. “You want me to get one.”

She nodded, her head against his good shoulder. “I don't want to pressure you, but … I feel like this could be going somewhere. And I want to know.”

John frowned. For some reason, he didn't like it.

He had apparently been quiet for too long, because Mary spoke again, sounding uncertain. “Don't you want to know?”

 

* * *

 

 _This is why I didn't want to_ , John thought to himself, as Mary accepted a tissue from the technician and quietly left the facility.

_0016d 14h 05m 17s_

 

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson had been delighted to see John's timer. “And so soon!” she cooed. “It's about time you had something good happen to you. No one deserves it more.”

“I had something good,” John said. “Mary was good. Though apparently not good enough.”

She patted his arm. “Just wait and see, dear.”

 

* * *

 

John didn't look at his timer when he woke up, and he didn't look at it in the shower, and he didn't look at it on the way to the clinic, and he certainly didn't look at it when he arrived at the clinic and it showed zero, as it had since midnight. He had watched it tick down.

Today was it, and he was terrified.

“Morning, John.”

He tried to smile at Sarah. She knew about his timer too, knew that today was _the day_. “Morning.”

“I think your first patient's already here,” she said. “Got here early. Waiting in your exam room, Jenny said.”

“Thanks.”

His lab coat and stethoscope were both in there, so he couldn't even use those props to slip into the _capable doctor_ persona that sustained him. He had to face it on his own, just him and the bloody bit of technology embedded in his right wrist.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath (it wasn't steadying) as he reached for the door handle. He noticed the tremor in his hand was back.

The door opened.

The patient turned around.

Two timers sang their stupid song.

John Watson leapt forward and punched Sherlock Holmes as hard as he could.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to ihnasarima for her input on the ending!


End file.
